The Scientists' Daughter
by fishlovesCA
Summary: When the stakes are of the highest order, everything comes into play, and nothing is assured. Love, loyalty, betrayal, morality, duty. The needs of the many turn on the lives of the few.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

When Dr. T'Prianne Rhaenn delivered the last material to her contact, she knew that her temporal life was over: Soon, her betrayal would become clear, and sometime after that she would die, killed by those whom she had helped for so many years, and whom she well knew would not tolerate such treachery. T'Prianne understood this; to a Vulcan, it was logical. She expected to die. In fact, she was counting on it. Her death was only a step, but a necessary one, triggering the event cascade needed to achieve the greater purpose she had worked toward for so long.

In the months preceding her betrayal, T'Prianne had _felt_ an increasing joy in the hearts of the people she had worked for; victory was theirs at long last, a victory gained in great measure through the information she and her husband had secretly provided. And she could also _feel_ the impatience, running like a dark fever, in those who backed their side, and who were waiting for their opportunity to strike.

This was what had caused her to act. A crisis had to be brought about, now, when it was least expected, and while all the parties were off-guard, now, while it was still possible to destabilize the situation. It would be a crushing setback for the people she and her husband had aided for years; unfortunate, but integral to her larger purpose. She needed to buy time for the real actors to finish their work. The future of the Federation depended on it.

When they returned to Selasdana a few days later, her husband immediately bundled up their daughter and sent her off to Vulcan; Anna would be protected there, and her safety was paramount: The child's destiny was hurtling toward her now, would open and catch her and set her on her future path in the same moments as her parents' death. Once their daughter was safely on her way, T'Prianne and her husband settled back into their work, and waited for the inevitable.

The weeks went by, and turned into months. T'Prianne watched as her betrayal reaped its devastating harvest. And, as she had planned, her perfidy was discovered, and now those she had betrayed, intent on revenge, had come and were hovering over her home like avenging angels, watching and waiting. But they did not attack.

T'Prianne re-evaluated the situation. She explained to her husband that she _felt_ the killers, in their need to punish and destroy, were waiting for their daughter to return home to Selasdana, waiting patiently, in order to kill, not just T'Prianne, but her entire family. This, too, was logical: Her betrayal had cost the people she had worked for very dearly, and they wanted her to pay as dearly.

As a Vulcan, T'Prianne could accept that she had to die, and that many others would die with her. If she had calculated correctly, many billions of others would be saved by her death. And if she didn't act to head off events, the result would be a cataclysmic war, death and disorder and ruin, a devastating conflict that would last for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. The small, controlled action she was playing a part in bringing about now would forestall that other, darker, fate.

Her husband was half-human, however, an emotional man, when he wasn't being scientifically rational. He had questioned her very closely about her plan before, and now his questions renewed, with a greater intensity of feeling: Wasn't there some other way? Did so many have to die? What about their child? How would they save her? Could Anna be saved?

She considered this question. There was a second option, a plan of action which might now be set into motion, a way to precipitate the needed crisis, and at the same time, possibly save their daughter. This strategy would require exquisite timing; and there was a chance the child couldn't be saved. Her plan was a calculated risk, but with a high probability of success.

She discussed all of this with her husband. Afterwards, he appeared resigned, said only that their daughter was young for such a step. Still, if the child's life could be spared in this way, then ...

T'Prianne Rhaenn sent a message along through her contact: No further delays. The time for the _Enterprise_ to visit their Outpost had arrived. Shortly thereafter, she received the affirmative reply she was expecting. Everything was now in place. One way or another, the Federation would have no choice but to act.

Knowing that their daughter would be saved, her husband was a little easier about their own fate, although T'Prianne often _felt_ flashes of sorrow and regret in his heart over the impending loss of her corporeal being. Regret was a particularly human emotion, and of all the human emotions, the one she understood least; regret was truly illogical, a waste of time and energy.

As for T'Prianne herself, her Vulcan logic had long ago overridden every other consideration. The truth for her was a burnished beacon, shining and clear, and it never changed: The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

"Computer."

The computer obediently chirruped. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, U.S.S. _Enterprise_, leaned forward, looking into the viewing screen on his desk.

"Captain's Log: The _Enterprise_ has arrived at Outpost Selasdana in the Corridor; it is evening here. We will conduct our official visit in the morning. From Selasdana, we will proceed to Outpost Verdana, and so on, until we've completed our tour of the Corridor, as ordered. Computer, close log."

The computer chirped its compliance.

He stared at the empty screen; openly conscious, suddenly, of his reflection there. The deep lines cutting around his nose down to his set mouth and chin, the straight-gazing eyes, the bristle-short white hair, growing low around his ears; somewhere in the years between wet- behind-the-ears Ensign and here, sitting in his Ready Room, Captain of the _Enterprise_, he had acquired the authority reflected in his face. He was Captain of this ship; down to the marrow in his bones, and beyond that, to his soul, he was the Captain. In this closed, self-contained world, he was the living core, the center from which all else radiated, decisions considered and taken, actions proceeded or deferred, moments known and unknown flowed, his mind, his will, even his whim, capable of moving the _Enterprise_ and everyone and everything on it through the universe, like an unseen but all-powerful uniting force, like a god ...

Like a god, ultimately responsible for all the souls on his ship.

He leaned forward. "Computer, Personal Log." The computer chirruped softly.

"Personal Log: ..." He stopped, searching for the right words, words alien to his mind, his tongue: An expression of defeat. No, he couldn't, he wouldn't say that, not at least, yet. Well, what then? In the screen, he saw that his expression had changed from resolution, to anger, and even doubt. He sank back a little into his chair.

An acknowledgment, perhaps, for history. He gripped the armrests, and leaned forward. "Personal Log: Everyone in the Federation knows our situation. This ship is a match, and we've flown deliberately into the tinderbox. Should anything happen to the _Enterprise_ or to anyone aboard this ship while we're on this mission, let it be known that I personally accept full and moral responsibility. Let history record that my failures, as a man and as a Star Fleet Officer, brought this fate upon ourselves, and upon the Federation."

He leaned back into his chair after a moment. "Log off." He stared unflinchingly at the grim face reflected in the screen.

It was done. No throat-clearing, no chair-scraping, no finger-pointing, later on. If the _Enterprise_ was lost, the blame would ever lay squarely where it belonged: On his shoulders.

Lopez/The Scientist's Daughter/3


	2. PART ONE, Chapter 1: The Orders

PART ONE

1. The Orders

**Will** Riker answered his door at the first signal, the smile of greeting on the younger man's face changing into a look of surprise, bright blue eyes widening; clearly expecting to see someone other than his Captain at the door of his quarters. The Second-in-Command of the Enterprise was dressed in exercise clothing, a lethal-looking bat'leh in his hand; coupled with Will's height and evident muscular strength, he was the picture of a man at the pinnacle of his physical powers.

Picard smiled, a bit forcedly. "You're on your way out," he said, and he started to turn away, glancing with a nod at the weapon in the other man's hand. "I take it you were going to meet Worf."

"Just for a little exercise; that can wait," Will answered, hastily stepping aside. "Please, come in, Jean-Luc."

He might have left anyway, except that he'd heard the quick interest in his Second in Command's voice. Instead, he stepped into the quarters and walked over to the table: The work screen was up, a few programs pushed off to the side, nothing important, he could see at a glance. Nothing that would keep his Second-in-Command from a good, hard workout, especially welcome, he was sure, after all their weeks of seeming inactivity, frustrating to a man of action like Will Riker.

"Can I give you some tea? Please, sit down," Will said, setting his weapon carefully on a chair and coming over to the table.

There was true hospitality in the deep, pleasant voice, a genuine welcome. Picard looked up into the other man's eyes: From the first day meeting William Riker, he had counted it as a blessing to be able to look into that open countenance in any situation and find in the expression not only his First Officer's excellent judgment but a man's honest sentiments; even when he didn't always like what he saw. He had never liked men around him who couldn't, read wouldn't, tell him the truth, even very unpleasant truths; it had occurred to him to wonder if that wasn't a measure of his own insecurities.

He had raised his hand to stop his friend's kind attentions: "I'm only here for a moment, Will. We've just received our orders," he said, calmly; certainly he was calmer now, than when he had gotten the word an hour ago.

At the news, he could almost see the pulse quickening, feel the eager curiosity, in the younger man: Where, what place, what challenge lay ahead, what adventure awaited them? Will smiled. "At last. I was beginning to think they'd forgotten us out here."

"Not at all," he replied. "I'd say just the opposite, in fact." He touched the smooth, cold tabletop with his fingertips, looking at the reflections in the glass a moment, before turning back to look into the other man's eyes. "I thought you should know first: We're being ordered into the Corridor."

The expression didn't change, the eyes never even flickered: Ah. His First Officer had a formidable reputation as the best poker player on the Enterprise and here was certain proof that he'd earned it: Tell the man they were headed into the most sensitive spot in the entire Federation, the place many were starting to suspect would see the beginning of the conflict with the Romulan Empire, and Will Riker didn't so much as turn a hair on that handsome head.

He nodded briskly. "I won't keep you any longer. We'll discuss the mission at the staff meeting in the morning," he said, starting for the door. "Good luck with Worf tonight."

And then he was out of the room, and down the few feet of passageway separating the Commander's quarters from his own.

He had just settled in with a cup of Earl Grey, black, boiling hot as he preferred, when his door signaled. It was Will, and in uniform, like himself. He felt more than a little relief at the sight, he readily admitted to himself, and no wonder: Will had a knack for doing the right thing at the right time. Now he was the one offering a seat and refreshment. The young man sat down, politely declined tea, anything else.

He ran his fingertip lightly along the handle of his cup, looking over at his friend, musing for a moment. "Why won't you take the helm in your own ship, Will? You're eminently qualified to be a Captain, you know, certainly better prepared than I was on my first command."

His friend smiled, the blue eyes quick with amusement. "Why haven't you let them make you an Admiral, Captain?"

He laughed: Touché. "Someday, you know, they'll pry both our fingers off the bridge of the Enterprise." He felt a great sigh building in his chest, released it, as he sat looking at his friend. The Corridor: That was what had brought Will here, they both knew it. "We're being sent along to the Corridor on a routine tour of our Outposts there," he said at last, aware that he was being consciously reasonable in his tone.

Will was springing to his feet. "Good God!" His Second-in-Command balled his hands on his hips. "Is that what they're calling it? A 'routine tour?'" Almost spitting the words out, the expression on the younger man's face plainly speaking his incredulity.

"Mm; not initially, no. The plan ... well, was quite different, originally, you may be interested to know. There was talk of sending an entire squadron in, for 'exercises', if you can imagine it." He had allowed himself to arch an eyebrow, on the word 'exercises'. "It was all I could do to talk us out of that particular scenario: That was the delay, you see."

Will's eyes had widened. "I think I'm beginning to," said his friend, finally, slowly, sinking back down into the chair, as if trying to absorb the meaning of all he had heard. "So our going was a compromise. Between sending in too damn many ships, and none at all. Well, but, I still don't understand why they're sending us - why any Star Fleet ship this size needs to be sent into the Corridor. The status quo's held good all this time, why do anything to ... " He saw the realization dawning in the other man's eyes. " ... upset it? There's more to it than that," his Second-in-Command said. "You know, I'm having a hard time, frankly, figuring how all this came about, Jean-Luc. Suppose you help me out."

An invitation to unburden himself from the secret he'd been carrying. Yes: He would tell Will, tell him everything, hold nothing back. He set his tea cup aside, and folded his hands.

"This actually began at the Admiral's Dinner," he started to say.

Will was long gone, his own tea ice-cold; and still he sat on, brooding.

By God!

He sat up and pounded his fist against the table: His teacup jumped, the brown liquid inside sloshing, spoon rattling in the saucer.

By God, the Rebellion! He'd rather face Romulans bare-handed, by God, than fight the Rebels!


End file.
